


the self is not so weightless (nor whole and unbroken)

by Casual_Scribbles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anglerfish backstory fic lets gooo, Angst, Fucking superb you funky little avatar, Tags may update as the story progresses, They/he pronouns for The Anglerfish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26028886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casual_Scribbles/pseuds/Casual_Scribbles
Summary: A camera flash they flinch away from. The grubby backdrop duct-taped to the brick wall behind them. The man behind the computer asks their name. They hate their name, don’t want to be known. They don’t want to carry their old identity with them anymore. Did they even have an old identity or was it all just a mask put on to please their parents? The only thing – the only real thing – they have is the anglerfish plush in their backpack and memories of nights spent under the covers with a flashlight learning about deep-sea creatures. “Angler.” They say, reaching for the spot of light in the dark of their mind. The man types and then asks for a surname. Angler’s mind draws a blank. So that’s what they tell him.-How The Anglerfish came to be and all that happens after(inspired by @spaceeggscreams anglerfish cosplay)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	the self is not so weightless (nor whole and unbroken)

You could get lost in a crowd if you really tried. It wouldn’t even be that hard; just slip in and you’re gone. No one notices a single person in hundreds, eyes skipping over each face until they all look the same. It’s tempting to just fall into step with the masses and disappear, but ultimately Angler knows it won’t get them anywhere. They don’t really want to disappear. They just want to be unknown. Nothing special, just another stranger you pass on the street with barely a fleeting thought passed in their direction.

They’ve already taken a step in the direction of anonymity. The only people who’ll remember them will never see them again and they’ve discarded the name they were given. Their ID had given a satisfying crunch when they’d crushed it in their hand and left it with their car at the bus station. Their new, fake ID – some old tramp on the street had pulled some strings in exchange for a generous wad of cash – held the name they would go by now: Angler Blank.

(A camera flash they flinch away from. The grubby backdrop duct-taped to the brick wall behind them. The man behind the computer asks their name. They hate their name, don’t want to be known. They don’t want to carry their old identity with them anymore. Did they even have an old identity or was it all just a mask put on to please their parents? The only thing – the only real thing – they have is the anglerfish plush in their backpack and memories of nights spent under the covers with a flashlight learning about deep-sea creatures. “Angler.” They say, reaching for the spot of light in the dark of their mind. The man types and then asks for a surname. Angler’s mind draws a blank. So that’s what they tell him.)

Angler presses through the crowd. They’ll need a place to stay until they get established here. It’s different from their hometown, definitely, but different is what they need. No one would think to look for them in someplace _different_ , not when their whole life has been so much of the same. Here they can remain in relative safety. Start over. Be free.

Ahead on the street, the sign for a café catches their eye, and their stomach growls. It’s been almost a full day since they’ve had the chance to eat. They duck into the café, the little bell above the door jingling brightly. The loud clamor of the crowd outside cuts off, replaced instead by the low buzz of café conversation. Some indie song is playing through the sound system in the store.

It feels like everyone looks at them. They know how they must look in their rumpled clothes, with their greasy hair and stubble. They’re willing to bet they have bags under their eyes, too. It’s not easy to sleep on a bus. Logically, they know it’s just people looking up at the sound of the bell and that they’ll go back to their conversations in a moment, but even so they feel eyes on them as they step into line.

The line is short. Behind the counter, three baristas weave around each other filling orders as the woman at the counter calls them out. Angler steps into line and fishes their wallet out of their pocket. There’s still plenty of cash, almost definitely enough to cover a meal and a room at a motel. Even so, just to be safe, they check the menu for the cheapest items.

The people in front of them are served quickly, the baristas moving with practiced efficiency, and they step up to the counter. The woman there smiles and they instinctively want to shy away. Smiles never mean what they’re supposed to. Her brown hair is swept up in a neat bun and Angler is very aware of how frazzled they must look compared to her. Their dark hair is falling out of the half-assed ponytail they’d pulled it back in earlier, curling strands drifting into their face and tickling their cheeks. Too messy. Not good enough. They swallow their rising dread and force a polite smile.

“What can I get for you?” The woman asks. _Caroline_ , her nametag reads.

Angler clears their throat and blinks up at the menu again. _Answer quickly_. “Jus’ a house sandwich and a mocha, please.”

“Sure thing. Can I get a name for that order?” Caroline stands poised with a paper coffee cup in one hand and a sharpie in the other. Angler freezes. On the one hand, this feels too close to being known and they don’t want that. But on the other, they have to get used to this new name somehow. They take a deep breath and remind themself that their new name is nothing like their deadname. Their family can’t track them by it.

“Angler,” they say slowly, after a pause just a bit too long to really be acceptable. They tense. She’s going to call them on it. She’s going to know it’s fake. Is it fake? A name is only as real as you make it. Caroline just smiles at them and scribbles the name onto the cup.

“We’ll get that right to you.”

Angler steps aside and waits patiently, trying to sort their priorities through their confusion (why didn’t she call them out? Why didn’t her smile turn poisonous?). Behind the counter, they can see one barista making their coffee while another assembles their sandwich. They still have to find a place to stay, but they don’t know the area. The people working here, though, probably live locally. One of them might know of anywhere nearby they could stay. Caroline calls their name. They take the wrapped sandwich and coffee from her hand. “Do you know of anywhere ‘round here I could get a room? Motel or somethin’?”

“Yeah, sure. Red Bird Motel usually has some rooms open. I don’t think it’s the best, but-“

“No, that’s fine. I don’t need anything fancy. How would I get there from here?”

Caroline walks them through getting to the motel and writes down the address and the directions as she talks. Angler thanks her, takes the note, and leaves. They slip back into the crowd, and though they don’t disappear, the regained anonymity feels nice. In the café, with Caroline knowing their name, talking to them like she knew them, _like she meant what she said_ , they’d felt far too known. Too unsure. At least here they’re just another face in the crowd. Here they don’t have to be sure about anything other than where they’re going.

Angler pulls their coat closer around them. They shrug their bag higher on their shoulders, though it doesn’t do much to alleviate the ache in their back. They hadn’t packed much, but it was still enough to be heavy. Hopefully, they’ll be able to stay at this motel and unpack soon.

Their stomach growls again, so they unwrap the sandwich. It doesn’t look too messy. Actually, it looks quite good. Eating while they’re walking isn’t ideal, but they’re really too hungry to care. They’re careful to avoid bumping into the other people on the sidewalk; they don’t want to lose their sandwich by accident.

It takes a while to reach the motel on foot. The light begins to fade and the crowds are already dispersing by the time Angler steps into the main office of the Red Bird. A tired-looking teenager looks up at them over his open textbook.

“Is there a room open?” They ask. The kid heaves a sigh and pushes his book away. He checks them into one of the open rooms and hands them a key. The pendant hanging off it has the number 14 engraved on it. They exit the office and walk through the parking lot. Cars pass by on the road. They should probably look into getting a car. Walking is fine for now, but it might not always be sustainable. They count up the doors, worn-down as they are, white paint chipped and peeling and numbers rusted where they hang. At last, they stand in front of door number fourteen and turn the key.

Inside, the room is simple. One bed, a nightstand, a dresser. A kitchenette, a table and chairs, a couch. A tiny adjoining bathroom with a grimy shower. It’s tiny, barely enough room to walk around in, but as Angler slings their heavy bag onto the ground, they’ve never felt freer.

After showering and changing, Angler flops back onto the bed. The springs creak beneath their weight and they have the thought that it might give out under them. The ceiling is covered in patches of water stains. They clutch their anglerfish plush – the only unnecessary item they’d allowed themself to take with them – to their chest. They’re finally free, they have a blank slate, they can do whatever they want, be whoever they want, and they have no idea what to do. They’d never really put much thought into it, never thought they’d actually get this far. They could just… be no one. Take odd jobs here and there to pay for the room and remain as unknown as they are now. No one telling them who to be, not even themself. It sounds like a dream.

Their family is long behind them and there are no voices telling them they’re not good enough anymore. No comparisons, no insults, no expectations. They’re nobody important and for once that feels like its enough. Maybe now they can finally sort out who they _are_ under everything they were told to be. Or maybe they’ll become someone else entirely. Blank slate and all that.

A yawn stretches their jaw and they shift onto their side, their heavy eyes drifting shut. The bed isn’t very comfortable, but they’re too tired to care. Besides, it’s better than half-sleeping on the bus. They can look for a job tomorrow, but for now, they sleep.

_The circus is a wonderful place for a child. The bright flashing colors from each tent and booth, the array of sugaring treats available, the plushes hanging above each game. They love it here. Here, they are expecting to be nothing more than a wonder-struck child. Their father takes their hand. “So you don’t get lost.” He says and there’s a smile on his face. They don’t see that often. They grin back, wide and gap-toothed._

_There’s so much to look at here, and even with their father’s strong grip on their small hand, it’s easy to get lost. Thankfully he’s always there to tug them back to his side before they can get too far. “Here,” their father says, pulling them up to one of the booths. They blink away the flashing lights and try to listen past the noise of the crowd and the steady rise and fall of the music coming from the biggest tent. “Why don’t you play a game?”_

_In front of them is a game booth. The attendant smiles widely at him. Her teeth are very white. There are bottles stacked on the back shelf and a ball in the attendant’s hand. They are instantly reminded of the cricket team their parents had made them join. They look up at their father. He pushes them toward the booth._

_“If you knock the bottles over you’ll get a prize!” The attendant says, holding the ball out to them. They take it. The ball is heavy, but the bottles look like they probably are too. They’re not that strong, though, not like the other kids on the team. And cricket was never all that fun. “Here, I’ll show you!” The attendant moves to their side, another ball in her hands. She throws it and they barely register the movement. The bottles topple with a clatter and she restacks them with fluid motions. “It’s easy!”_

_They nod and squeeze the ball in their hand. If she could do it maybe they could too. They lift the ball and draw their arm back, take a deep breath, and fling the ball forward. The bottles fall with a clatter. Their father is positively beaming. The attendant’s smile grows wider. “Look how strong you are!” She reaches up and unhooks one of the plushes hanging from the ceiling._

_They take it from her waiting hands, their fingers brushing her smooth skin. It’s an angler fish. They hold it close to their chest, stroking the soft fabric. They’re strong. They earned this. Maybe… maybe they can earn other things, too, if they do what their parents ask._

_The attendant returns to her place, still smiling. They don’t think she’s stopped smiling since they got here. She was smiling before that, too. They take their father’s hand and hold their anglerfish close. Their father takes them to see the rest of the circus and it’s a blur of smiling faces and colorful lights and applause._

Angler wakes with circus music ringing in their ears.


End file.
